


Time to Scream

by thrillingtremors



Category: Scream (Movies)
Genre: BASED OFF OF THE SONG “YOUR NUMBER’S UP”, Ghostface is not a nice guy, Song fic, it’s by Ice Nine Kills, please go listen to it, reader is traumatized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:33:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21678295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrillingtremors/pseuds/thrillingtremors
Summary: [ Based off of the song “Your Number’s Up” by Ice Nine Kills! ]Your parents were out for the night, and you were supposed to have a relaxing evening getting caught up on homework. That is, until you receive an unexpected call, and your whole life changes forever.
Relationships: Ghostface (Scream) & Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Time to Scream

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this fanfiction is based off of the song “Your Number’s Up” by Ice Nine Kills! It’s an amazing song, I suggest go listening to it, and listening to it while you read! :)

“A dial tone, a deadly ring,  
so far away from everything.  
No silver screens or movie scenes  
when your number’s up, it’s time to scream.” 

────────────────────────

Your mother and father were leaving for a date. You bid them farewell, hugging both of them and wishing them a good time. Your mother waved at you as she left, and you smiled back at her, watching as she grabbed your father’s hand. They walked away into the distance, and you stared at them getting into the car. You turned away, letting out a sigh. 

This was the perfect time to catch up on your homework. You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and went to head upstairs when the phone suddenly rang. You glanced over at it, but weren’t particularly excited to answer. You had no friends who’d be contacting you, especially this late. So you ignored the caller, and headed upstairs. The thought occurred to you that maybe a family member of yours was trying to reach you, but you shook off the worry. If they really needed to urgently contact you, they’d keep calling, or leave a message.

You took a sip of water, and nearly choked on it when the ear-splitting sound of the phone rang out through the empty house. You set the bottle down on your desk, breathing out heavily through your nose. This was either a really determined telemarketer, or an actual emergency. You decided to not be lazy or rude, even if you weren’t in the mood for socializing. You slipped back downstairs, hoping the conversation wouldn’t last too long. 

You wished your parents would’ve left just a little bit later, then you wouldn’t have to talk to someone. You weren’t really the social type, especially over the phone. You tended to mess up your sentences, or just lapse into awkward silences without meaning to. It wasn’t your fault, really. You’d gone to a therapist a few times (at your parents’ orders) and the woman had diagnosed you with anxiety. Whether or not you actually had it? You didn’t know. All you knew was that you had to answer this phone, so it’d stop interrupting your hard work.

You checked the caller ID. It read ‘UNKNOWN’ and that sent a prickle of fear down your spine. You hesitated, your hand hovering above picking up the phone and answering it. You didn’t want to. Now that you knew it was someone you didn’t know, you were even more reluctant to answer the call. Still, it wouldn’t stop ringing, the person clearly insistent upon reaching you. What if it was an emergency? You shook your head, and before you could back out or regret anything, you grabbed the phone hurriedly and pressed it up to your ear.

“Hello?” You asked, your voice quiet. 

“Hello there.” The person on the other end sounded . . . Odd. Their voice was almost robotic; distorted. You frowned, furrowing your brow. Were they okay? Either they were a heavy smoker, or using something like a voice changer. But why would they— you felt your hand tighten around the phone, and you swallowed past the lump that’d formed in your throat. “W-whose this?” Your voice was soft still, and you hated the meek way you stuttered. You couldn’t shake the fear that started rising within you. Something was wrong. 

“You’ll find that out soon.” Even through the distortion, the voice sounded smug. You felt uncomfortable. What did that mean? It was clearly ominous, and even threatening. Acting on instinct, you began walking around the house. You double-checked the windows, making sure they were locked and that the blinds were closed. For just a split second as you looked outside into the backyard, you thought you saw a flicker of movement. It made your heart leap up, pounding erratically. Was there something or someone out there? You frowned. You didn’t want to take a chance, so you went into the kitchen, staring at the row of knives. Your hand, trembling like a leaf, reached out. Did you want to take one? Yes, your mind said.

“I’m sorry. But I think . . . You have the wrong number.” Your voice shook, and you exhaled heavily, trying to correct yourself. You couldn’t end up seeming like a coward, or a scaredy-cat. If this really was someone out to hurt you, your fear would just feed them their fuel. Your nails dug into your palms, and you snatched up a kitchen knife, gripping it tightly. The blade glistened in the dim lighting of the room, and you stared at it. If you were overreacting, this would be embarrassing. But it’s not like anyone could see you doing this. 

Right? 

“I don’t think I do.” The stranger on the other end practically purred. You wrinkled your nose. This definitely didn’t sound like anyone nice, far from a decent person. They were being deliberately aloof and mysterious, and you were almost sure they were threatening you. You grit your teeth, and you stared at the knife. Could you use this to defend yourself? Could you ever bring yourself to kill someone? It didn’t matter if you wanted to or not. If you wanted to stay alive, you’d have to. It would just be self-defense. You wouldn’t be afraid of any jerk hiding behind a phone. If this was a prank, it was a bad one. If this guy was serious, you were ready for him. You glanced around the room, feeling yourself shivering. 

“Well, I think I’m going to hang up.” Your voice had sharpened, and you were proud of yourself. You were becoming defensive, and you wouldn’t stand for this person’s bullshit anymore. You straightened out your posture, the knife still clutched firmly in your grasp. You were prepared. You eyed the door, like at any minute someone would come bursting inside. Impossible. You’d locked all the doors. Unless they were already inside. Impossible. You’d have heard them. Wouldn’t you? You spun around in a circle, feeling suddenly unsafe. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The voice turned darker, and you curled your lip into a sneer. “Or what?” You taunted. You were scared, your voice trembled, but you weren’t going to bow down and be someone’s meek bitch. You’d been bullied and picked on enough to grow a steel covering, and if this was some joke by one of your tormentors, you’d go ballistic. “You gonna come in here and kill me?” Your own tone darkened. You were being serious. You waited for the answer, ignoring how your palms grew slick with nervous sweat.

“I don’t know, but I do know you’ll be dying to hang on to the line.” The words were clearly deliberate, the words precise and calculating. You felt cold hard rage pulse through you. “I’m not afraid of you!” You shouted. “You wanna try something? Then, fine. Grow a pair of balls and come in here if you can. It’ll be your fucking funeral.” You spat venom, and though your outside appearance came off as aggressive and confident, your heart was racing and your head was throbbing. You were close to hanging up and calling the police to help you. Whether it was a false alarm or not, you’d feel better once the cops arrived to protect you. 

The person on the other line laughed, evidently amused. It was a slimy sound, and you hated it. “You’re funny. Hey, why don’t you tell me your name, hm?” The voice snickered in your ear, and you huffed. “You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine,” the voice whispered. “Don’t you already know me?” You retorted, your gaze fixated on the knife. If this person was serious, they were probably already by you. If you called the police, they’d never get to you in time. Should you make a run for it? No. There’d be nowhere for you to go. You lived in the middle of the country, and your closest neighbor was a mile away. You’d never make it. As you were leveling up your options, you thought you heard a twig snapping outside. 

You jumped, spinning around with fright. “Mm, no, not quite.” The voice was quiet, calculating. “I really would like to know just who I’m looking at.” You froze, your blood running cold, and you whipped around, your head scanning all your sides. You didn’t see a face peering at you. Where could this maniac be? “Are you messing with me?” You hissed. 

“Are YOU messing with ME?” The voice retorted. “Tell me your name.” You breathed out shakily. “(Y/N),” you said at last. “Now tell me yours, douche.” The voice was silent, then it said clearly, “You don’t need to know. Of course, you won’t live long enough to tell the cops anything I’ve told you, but . . . I don’t want to give you any satisfaction or closure knowing who killed you.” You stared at the floor, your eyes wide with horror and pure terror. “B-bullshit. You told me you’d tell me your name, if I told you mine!” You shouted, voice shrill. “And I don’t buy your empty threats for a second. It’s not a funny prank, you damn asshole!” 

“You think this is a prank?” The voice chuckled. “It’s far from that. Unless you want your death to be a joke.” There was a sudden thud against your window, and you choked down a scream. A frightened whimper escaped your lips, and you backed away from said window. Your eyes stretched even wider, if that was possible, and you felt your breath catching. “Why me?” Your voice was feeble and full of sadness. Always why, you? Why were you the target of anything bad to possibly happen? It was like you could never once catch a break. 

“Because you picked up the phone. Because your parents left you alone. Isn’t that enough of a reason for me to choose you?” The voice murmured, and your eyes filled with genuine tears. No, you thought. No! That’s when you knew this person had to be real. No one else could have that much dedication, to come to your secluded house and watch your parents leave. No, it had to be someone who had more malicious intent than just mental torture. Someone was stalking you, waiting for the perfect moment to strike — and they’d gotten it. You wanted to sob. Why did your parents leave you?! A single tear slid down your cheek. 

You clutched the knife close to your chest, and couldn’t help the frightened scream that escaped you when your doorbell rang. “Whose there?!” You shouted, the tears freely spilling down your face, now. “Don’t you know not to ask that?” The voice on the phone inquired mockingly. “Fuck you!” You screamed. “Fuck you to hell and back! Try me, asshole, I’ll kill you!” You took a confident step towards the door, your brain trying to convince you to fight, since you had no real option of flight. You braced yourself. You could handle whoever was behind that door, and behind that phone. You wouldn’t let them get to you. You scowled. 

“Oh, come on. Just be good and let me do what I want, would you?” The voice was maliciously teasing you. You stiffened, your knuckles turning white around the knife handle. “And what do you want, exactly?” You demanded. You knew this person desired to kill you. But you wanted to know if they’d do anything else, if they’d torture you, if they’d — you gulped. “I want to see what your insides look like,” the voice breathed, and you flinched. “How could you be so demented?!” You cried, your face screwing up with fear and agony. You imagined your poor body, torn apart to reveal your intestines to some fucking psycho.

You gulped. “I’m hanging up the phone,” you said hurriedly. “Wrong choice,” the voice cooed, but you had already hung up on them. You started hurriedly dialing 911, your fingers shaking. The line rang for what felt like forever until a voice reached your ears. “911, what is your emergency?” Tears erupted like a waterfall from your eyes. “Please, help me!” You cried. “I’m being attacked!” You gave them your address, and the operator told you to stay on the line until police arrived, but you couldn’t — for there was loud banging on your front door. You covered your mouth with a hand, grabbing the knife and running to find a hiding spot. 

Where could your attacker possibly not find you? You ran upstairs, into your room. You knew this wasn’t the right choice, logically — there was no exit besides jumping out your window. Now that you reflected upon it, the fall wouldn’t be too bad. You had the risk of breaking your neck, and would definitely break some other limbs, but it was better than being stabbed to death. Besides, you had a plan formatting through your racing mind. You darted into your closet, leaving the door cracked. Your closet was right by the door leading into your room. Once the guy got inside, you’d launch out and take him by surprise — 

You’d stab him, and end everything then and there! 

You knew your parents had to be coming home soon. Right? Your heart was racing as you heard the sound of smashing, and then loud footfalls. The person had broken inside. You clutched your knife tightly in your hands. I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid, you kept repeating to yourself. You weren’t going to back down! You were going to give this man hell. You were young. You still had a life to live. And like shit some creeper would take that away from you! You took a deep breath, your mouth setting into a firm line. Bring it on, you thought grimly. 

You should’ve never answered that damned phone. That deadly ring might’ve sealed your fate. You were so far away from everything. You cursed internally, wishing you lived somewhere more populated. Maybe none of this would even be happening. Perhaps this guy picked you as a victim simply because he’d thought you’d be too easy to kill. But there was a flaw in his calculations. He was underestimating you. You wouldn’t die, no, not to him! Never. You’d rather stab yourself with this damned knife than give him the gratification of doing it himself. You swallowed, your lips feeling dry, and you tensed as footsteps neared. 

They were coming up the stairs . . . 

They checked the other rooms first. Yours was at the end of the hallway. You could hear them moving around, even getting the nerve to call out for you tauntingly, trying to play with your fear. You wouldn’t let it work. You scoffed, and wondered how many victims this guy had, or if you were his first. You’d teach this asshole. He was approaching your room. He was right outside. You heard your door creak, saw a shine of light, and then you lunged. 

You erupted from the closet, knife in hand, and let out a cry as you plunged it into your attacker’s shoulder, barely missing their chest. They’d turned just in time. You yanked out the knife forcefully, stepping back on your heels. It made a loud squelch as it exited the person’s flesh, and they howled with pain. Definitely a man. He looked over at you, and you could practically feel his anger. He was holding his shoulder, and you took the chance. You stabbed him again in his thigh, yanking the knife out just as quickly, and he grunted, trying to grab you but you ran past him. He cursed furiously at you, but you ignored him, running away and down the stairs hurriedly. 

Your hands were slick with your attacker’s blood. It was better him than you. You made a beeline for the door, noticing the window in the living room had been broken. So that’s how he’d gotten inside. You hurriedly unlocked the deadbolt to the door, heart pounding, and heard rushed footsteps descending down the stairs. “Not so fast, bitch!” The man snarled. “Our film is nearly finished now, and you’re not getting a fucking sequel!” He leaped at you. You ducked, barely avoiding getting a tactical knife to your head. It hit the door, and you seized the opportunity to stab him in his back, but it definitely wasn’t deep enough. Shit! 

You tugged out the knife just as the man grabbed his from the wall, effectively blocking that exit. “Should’ve gone for my head,” he said tauntingly, wiping blood from his back. “This wound is so shallow, you’d think a toddler did it.” He sneered, walking menacingly towards you. “When the cops come here, all that will be left of you is bloody entrails and that damned phone. And all they’ll find is a listed call with the user unknown.” The man grinned underneath his mask, and you stared at him and his ridiculous, yet scary, costume. 

It was a black robe, with long sleeves and a pointed hood. Your attacker wore a ghostly mask, pure white that shone hauntingly at you. Black eyes seemingly staring into your soul, a dark mouth parted into an unending scream. You turned on your heel, not bothering to waste your energy talking to him. You bolted for the back door, unlocking it just in time. 

A knife stabbed at your throat, but you rolled aside and the strike missed. This guy was definitely new to killing, judging from the way he kept missing and huffing. He clearly didn’t expect it to be this hard. You wanted to laugh at him. While he was recovering, you kicked him where it hurt the most — his balls. He grunted with pain, slumping to the floor. While he was down, you ran outside. You started screaming at the top of your lungs for help. As you ran, you realized you should have killed him while he was down. God, were you dumb!

Horror movie tactic 101: when the killer gets weakened, fucking finish him! Don’t run away, or else they’ll just come back! You’d messed up, and you would regret it. You booked it across your desolate front lawn, and heard someone chasing after you. “Help me!” You begged to no one but empty air. Where were the police?! You were going to die! You’d made so many mistakes, you felt ashamed of yourself. How pitiful your life would end like this. You wanted to kick and yell, you wanted to curse your luck, your bad decisions, everything. 

You were almost at the street when someone tackled you, knocking you to the ground. You screamed in terror, kicking and lashing out. You raked your nails across the mask, and grabbed the knife, aiming to kill, now. You stabbed at the man’s head, but he dodged and you missed. He wrestled the knife from your grasp, your screams ringing in both of your ears. “Just let me go!” You begged, tears glistening in your reddened eyes. The man above you tilted his head, tossing away your weapon like it was nothing but a toy to him. “And why would I do that?” He asked snidely. He brandished his own knife, raising it high above you. 

“Your number’s up, (Y/N). Time to scream.” 

“No!” You thrashed around and struggled as hard as you could, screeching at the top of your lungs and choking on your own tears. You readied yourself, and sure enough, the blade of the knife plunged into your side. The scream that erupted from you was primal, animalistic with wild pain. Your arms flailed about wildly, and you felt blood gushing out from your open wound. You clutched at it desperately, your hands slick with red, and your eyes shimmering tearfully. “This is every slasher’s dream,” the man above you said. You sniffled. “Leave me alone,” you said weakly, trying to crawl away. The man stabbed you in your thigh.

You screamed, flinching back as agony consumed you. “Not so fast,” the man teased. “I’m not done with you just yet.” You sobbed, tears rushing down your bloodied face. Your blood was everywhere, but you could see your attacker’s blood littering his dark outfit. You’d gotten him good, even if he would have the last laugh in the end, he’d never be able to forget you. “Why are you doing this?” You whimpered as he yanked the knife out of your thigh with a sickening wet sound. He twirled the bloody knife around, and you knew he was definitely smiling manically behind his mask. Even wounded, he had enough energy to kill. 

“Because the knife in you brings out the life in me.”

You tilted your head away as he stabbed you again in your stomach. Then again, in your chest. It all hurt so much, you could barely think. You knew you were losing blood, and fast. The man was going to rip you open at this rate, just like he’d said — but you heard sirens in the distance, and saw the faint glow of red and blue flashing lights. The police. But like you’d predicted, they’d been too far away. They’d come too late. He’d gotten to you already. Your attacker seemed to panic as pressure set in. He’d wanted more time with you, you could see that. He lifted the knife up, prepared to slit your throat and make sure you died. 

However, he didn’t get to finish you off since the yelling of police officers and barking of dogs made him freeze. He got up off of you quickly. He clearly didn’t want to be caught, not so soon. You knew he wanted to keep killing. More victims would come after you. You hoped your efforts would get him busted. Your eyes slipped closed as you heard him fleeing. He seemed confident you wouldn’t survive, and honestly, you had little faith you would live. 

You could feel yourself ebbing away, your consciousness drifting as everything faded before your eyes. You heard screaming and felt strong arms lifting you up. You were being carried somewhere, onto a stretcher — you closed your eyes. Maybe dying wouldn’t be that bad?

The last thing you heard that night was, “Who will tell her parents?” 

────────────────────────

You woke up to blinding white lights. 

Am I dead? You wondered deliriously. But, no. You were laying on a bed, an IV in your hand. You heard faint beeping, and recognized that you were in a hospital. Your whole body ached and burned, and you felt beyond sore. Your head slowly turned, and you saw two huddled-together forms, resting on chairs beside your bed. It was your parents. Your eyes widened. 

“Mom? Dad?” You whispered, your voice dry and hoarse from screaming. 

Your mother sat up like she’d been shot, and your father looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “Oh, (Y/N)!” Your mother sobbed, getting up and running to you. She wrapped her arms gently around you in a tender hug, and your father joined you. “The doctors said you might not have made it through the surgery! They said you had intense internal bleeding, w-we thought, oh we t-thought our baby might not survive! But you did! You did, oh (Y/N)! I’m so sorry. We should’ve been there, we should have protected you from this, oh I’m so sorry!”

You felt completely numb. You remembered what had happened to you. Your parents leaving. The phone ringing. The ghostly mask parted in a scream. Your attacker descending upon you. Brutal stabs everywhere. You wanted to cry, but your eyes wouldn’t produce tears.

“Let me go contact the nurse,” your father said, lovingly stroking your hair and kissing your cheek. He got up and left the room, and your mother soon followed after hovering over you. She was insistent on getting you some food and gifts. She claimed the whole town had been worried over you. You found that hard to believe; people were probably glad you’d been attacked. You felt your heart sink. So many people probably wanted you gone. Dead. Your assaulter could’ve been anyone. No one liked you, so that meant everyone was a suspect.

You were lost in your sad and chaotic thoughts, you almost didn’t notice it. 

But sure enough, there it was. You felt your heart sinking, and your wide eyes stared open in horror. No, you thought. I’m just imagining it. No, no, no! You thought in a panic, trying not to cry. Your hands shook, and you felt yourself beginning to hyperventilate. You were terrified.

The phone was ringing from next to you, and the caller ID read unknown.


End file.
